DRYAGANA.

quiet-archer​:

Without another word, Leonardo follows Kurth, still vigilant and looking out for warning signs. He’s the one overdoing it, his mind points out with a reprimand. Kurthnaga is fine, you’re just trying to find something you’d be good for right now. It takes a lot of willpower for him to shove the thought aside.

He can hear the Hoshidan prince’s voice ahead, and he cannot help but feel admiration. It must feel good to have the courage to speak out like this, no matter who you address.

Upon rejoining with Takumi and Maribelle, the archer remains quiet; he sees the new burst of sickness preventing Kurth from introducing them, and he himself hesitates for too long to do so before Fraldarius speaks. It would appear that she has decided to put at least some trust in them, and he has no doubt that it is something for them to be grateful for.

When the flier takes her leave, Leonardo glances at the group unsurely. “So… shall we go back to tell the others about this?” He offers. “They’ll probably want to know.”

– FIN

dearmissmaribelle​:

No one ever truly wins in wars. Maribelle firmly believes that after her fight along with the Shepherds. There will always be devastation no matter which side reigns supreme, and it’s always the people who suffer the most because of it.

She takes the time to scan what remained of the battlefield. She knows none of these people and she most likely never will. However, they are but pawns and sacrifices of this battle that met their demise and she could not help but feel some sympathy over the one that remained. 

She does not speak over Takumi, letting his passion fill the conversation. Whether or not his morale boost worked, Maribelle remains passive until asked of her identity.

❝ How rude of me– of course. Introductions are necessary. My name is Maribelle. I am but a Troubadour currently without her mount, Lady Fraldarius. It is an honor to meet you. ❞  Oh how she misses Buttercup… Caring for Fraldarius’s steed makes her miss her own, but now was not the time for such sentiments.

The mention of Seiros makes her want to agree, but declaring allegiance might be a dangerous move at the moment. ❝ I am no neophyte in wars, however, you are correct. This war is not ours. We’re simply… lost without a means to go back to where we came from. ❞ She fails to fully access situation at the moment, taking into account both Takumi and Fraldarius’ words. She seems defeated. And Takumi, on the other hand, seems full of passion and determined to boost her morale. Perhaps that was a good strategy at the moment… ❝ It is improper to speak for the group– but I have full confidence the sentiments are shared. This may not be our war, but we cannot turn a blind-eye to those in need most especially once we see an opportunity to give aid. ❞ 

It was at this time when Leonardo and Kurt arrived, and Maribelle takes a step to the side and gestures to them. ❝ Ah– perfect timing. Lady Fraldarius, these are more of our companions. ❞

                        → @sayatieya

          with leonardo following close, it’s easier to maintain his composure than if he were to traverse this haunted landscape alone. it’s not unlike some years ago, when he had first stepped from the mountains of his native land and journeyed across tellius with only the wind at his back; he had not realized, until micaiah had invited him to walk with her and the others of the dawn brigade, that it could be a comfort to face hardship alongside others. by the time they make their way, it seems takumi and maribelle have begun, the former seeming quite animated about something. but the atmosphere is calm, if somber, and the lady knight doesn’t seem perturbed about their presence. he may have expected a soldier fresh after battle to be more on edge, but from the moment they had found her, she had carried only a hard weariness he had encountered before: in those who had seen enough demons in the light to know not to fear the dark.

          maribelle gestures to them as they arrive, and the lady knight’s eyes sweep over them; kurth offers a gentle incline of the head, hand briefly touching over his sternum. with the ill feeling still lurking in his throat and lungs, however, he doesn’t trust himself to speak — rude, he will recognize later, when he is more himself.

          ❝ hm. i suppose if you were sent by seiros to kill me, you would have done it by now. ❞ she doesn’t sound particularly threatened by the idea, he notices. ❝ i’m not in much place to turn down help. but, ❞ she frowns at maribelle and takumi again, ❝ be careful how you get involved. this isn’t the kind of war you want to get wrapped up in. now that she’s been healed up, i’m going to see if i can find his highness and the others. ❞ she pats the pegasus’ neck. but as she turns to pull herself into the saddle, she pauses, and glances back at maribelle again.

                      ❝ thanks, again. if nothing else, you’ve helped me live another day. ❞

dearmissmaribelle​:

     ❝ Excellent. I can already see the improvement. ❞ She says with a hint of pride and amusement, noticing the attempt and struggle but nevertheless appreciating the effort. ( Now if only my son was as obedient as you, I’d have no problems in the future. )

     As for the two that lagged behind, Maribelle inspects both Kurt and Leonardo, wondering if she should do more before proceeding again, or leaving it up to the blond who took the initiative. ❝ If you are feeling too unwell, do not hesitate to ask for assistance, is that clear? I know everything must be overwhelming at the moment, but we must keep it together and carry on. ❞

      Moving onward to approach Lady Fraldarius and her injured pegasus, Maribelle stands beside Takumi and speaks only after he’s done. ❝ That is correct, Lady Fraldarius. Lord Takumi has expressed concern over your well-being as well as your steed– may we offer our assistance? I can provide some basic healing if needed and if you’ll allow us. ❞ A brief pause in between, a sympathetic glance given to the poor steed. ❝ …and if it’s not too intrusive, how did the both you get these injuries? ❞

     She looks between both Takumi and Maribelle, wary for a second, sussing out the intentions. ❝ …I suppose i’ll take the help i can get. ❞, Fraldarius answers, relenting to the offer.

     With that confirmation, Maribelle nods and steps forward, healing offered. A green wave of rejuvenating energy washes over both fighter and mount, the process slow but steady. Tomeless magic is still foreign to Maribelle, but she has had some practice, at the very least.

     ❝ Isn’t it obvious? ❞ She gestures an arm at the battlefield all around, a noticeable pained look on her face. In that second, it’s suddenly starkly clear how stressed and hopeless she feels. It passes when she looks back at the group,  ❝ They were the better fighters. There’s nothing more to be said for it. It was a fair engagement. no tricks… ❞ For a second, it seems like Fraldarius was about to say more, but doesn’t.

                          → @sayatieya

          he truly hopes they don’t wait for him, and yet his strength is not in insisting, but in staving off the growing urge to retch. shame is one factor, but a distant one — he is guarded only in the knowledge that, save leonardo, these people do not know him or his station, and will think little less of him for his weaknesses than they might any other. blessedly, the silver-haired beorc decides to follow him at his word, and leaves with the young woman, leaving him to his silent battles. several terrible seconds of wrenching nausea pass, and the wave begins to pass, he becomes aware of a presence joining to sit beside him.

          ❝ oh... you shouldn’t... ❞ but whatever he’d been about to say fades into a gagging sound of disgust as a whiff of wet iron and blood filters in. leonardo offers his tentative assistance, and kurthnaga finally finds it in himself to at least shake his head, crestfallen in his disappointment in himself. he’d presumed... after the tower of guidance, the strength of his aversion would be a frailty of innocence past, the softness of the goldoan generation that has never seen war, nor so much as unrest.

          this ocean of corpses — they lay contorted in pain and shock like the effigies of so many stone figures embalmed in time when the goddess’ judgment had swept the land. they would not move, and this vision would not change, no matter how long he sits here, if he does nothing. his fingers, seeming human and all the fragility that carries, curl and grip hard against the wood of the log he’s sitting on, knuckles paling and the threat of splinters pricking under his nails. for the sake of the one whose look of concern he can feel, and for the others who are trying to make the most of their disturbing situation... ❝ i’ll be all right. ❞ 

          perhaps if he tells himself enough, just like the last time. then it can become more than rhetoric. he tries to offer leonardo a wan smile, focusing on the dandelion of the hair over his ear rather than the spectacle that stretched beyond it. ❝ ... thank you. i’ll accomplish nothing by staying here. ❞

          still, he wobbles as he gets to his feet, and the blockage lodging in his throat threatens to claw its way ever higher the moment he takes his mind from it. the pair who had gone to find the lady knight had gone this way. ❝ we should join the others. ❞

dearmissmaribelle​:

     Maribelle has immense pride, however, she also upholds the rules of society. She respects hierarchy, and despite some personal complaints, she keeps her mouth shut until she was addressed. Then, and only then, does she speak her mind. A smile forms first and foremost when one of the Lords she came to know about addressed her. 

     ❝ I will be more than happy to assist where I can, Lord Takumi. I deeply admire the leadership skills you’ve shown thus far but I must agree. Indeed, your “ chatting ” skills could use some work. Might I suggest addressing people by their names and not simply referring to them as “ you two ”? ❞ The use of air quotes was unbecoming of her, but she cannot keep her hands still. Her belongings were not here: not her parasol, or even a fan! Has she grown so reliant on other things to practice restraint? Surely, this was part of the effects of waking up to this place. Maribelle lets out a deep exhale. Now was not the time to scold him without at least providing some sort of assistance to the situation. To his credit, he did a fine job organizing everyone. If only his speech was more refined… What a shame.

     ❝ Before we bombard the poor woman with questions, I can provide her and her pegasus with some healing. Earning one’s favor first can guarantee some good results. ❞

                           → @sayatieya @quiet-archer @amenomakakoyumi

          what a— a horrific sight. not even the nightmares of the war had compared. the petrification of the continent and its peoples had been shocking; the bloodbaths at daein castle and the tower of guidance had tested each last fiber of his will through a trial by death and violence. but in that, there had been resolve, something to pick him up again, or keep him standing when an ally pulled him to his feet, keep him climbing even when it was the bodies of his own people that lay strewn behind him.

                              he thought nothing could test him again after that.                                                             what a naive assumption.

          he sits a distance away from the others, a small shape pelted by the wind and rain, but unbothered by either. it was not, after all, the storm that churned his stomach, that gave rise to the swells of nausea that rose and abated up into his throat like a sickening tide. even traveling with the others through this plutonian landscape proves difficult; at the first opportunity, he has turned as much of his back as possible to as many corpses as possible—

                                             don’t think about it

          measuring each breath as it passes through his mouth ( inhale. exhale. ), willing away the acrid, roiling stench of blood and decay that he knows lies behind it.

          his ally’s voice speaking to him almost doesn’t register. but he manages to catch onto the end of what is being said, bringing him just enough from the debilitating sensation of fire and illness that he manages a weak nod.

          ❝ y-yes... i think i could manage that. ❞ it’s possible distraction is what he needs. getting his bearings in this strange, blight-stricken land... diplomacy is his strong suit, isn’t it? but even knowing that there is nowhere he take refuge to escape from the sight of so much carnage, the thought that to assist the others, he must wade through so much blood... a hand lifts to cover his mouth again, and his shoulders shudder. ❝ i’m sorry. please, go on ahead first... ❞

ladamedepique​:

[ ... ] The thing was, he was very good at being exactly where she wasn’t whenever Camilla thought of looking for him. She would turn her head for a second, and suddenly he would no longer be in the mess hall. Blink, and his seat in the classroom would be empty. By the end of the week, she learned that ‘Kurth’, if that had been his real name, was seen heading to the greenhouse, which was definitely not where she had previously heard he was to be, but by that point, it was as good a lead as any.

The greenhouse was quiet that evening. The artificial heat and humidity had fogged the glass enough that she could not see in from the outside, even if the lighting had been much better. In the dim light, Camilla was reminded vaguely of the Woods of the Forlorn, with its low carpet of mist and inpenetrable caponies. But he was there, crouched among the baskets of sprawling ivy and petunias blooming out of season, almost blending into the shadows.

“That was quite cruel of you,” she chided, arms crossed over her chest. “To give me such a run around. I’m almost hurt by it–ah, ah, please don’t run again.”

          avoidance wasn’t a pretty thing. even as he skirted corners and timed his exits swift and silent, something not quite like shame but adjacent to it sat like a stone in his gut. it seemed dishonorable — impossible — for a dragon to run; a birth by black scales eschewed the knowledge of fear. he recognized with disgrace that the others would not abide such behavior from him, that were they here, perhaps he wouldn’t have stomached the gall to have started this to begin with; such cowardice discredited his legacy. but what was he afraid of?

          ( painfully ironic, how the goddess herself had deemed the inheritors of the night tide              ‘ greatest among the enfleshed ’,                                                         yet it is fear that shackles them each in turn. )

          the classroom; the dining hall; the library. he evades her within them all, watchful of sweeping lilac and searching eyes. her presence seems to eclipse any room she enters, drawing attention and gravity; it’s something he can use to his advantage.

          but she is an adept predator, and he is no prey.

          this evening, the greenhouse is especially lovely. the towering glass casts a great chess board of fading light onto the cobblestone floor, hazy rays falling soft across the domed arches, the columns, the plants, and all their elongated shadows in the melancholy honey-golds of day’s end. a drifting blanket of warm moisture lulls him into a sense of calm, and even once his errand has finished here, he lingers, taking in the ephemeral beauty and the nameless sensation that accompanies it.

          he ought to have expected that this would be when she catches up to him, but her voice breaks the quiet liike a disturbance on still water. he turns— already, she’s upon him, and moves to block him when he starts to leave. it’s futile to try further; she stands between him and the greenhouse’s only exit, seeming large enough to fill the walkway. the chase would be exhausted eventually; she was bound to succeed in time. she must have known this as well as he did, beneath it all.

healingmist​:

{ @sayatieya }

The moment Mist saw the sign announcing the extra credit assignment, she immediately decided to sign up for volunteer work at the stables. It was where her lovely horse Nanna lived, after all, so she was always happy to do her part to help out. Especially if it meant better living conditions for the steeds. There had been complaints about drafts and leaky pipes for a while now, so she was glad the administration had finally gotten off of their butts to do something about it.

She packs a few snacks for her horse, as well as for the pegasi and wyverns, humming a jaunty tune as she heads over to the stables. Mist isn’t really expecting anything more than a regular, if exhausting, few hours spent tending to animals, but when she arrives, she definitely gets a lot more than she bargained for.

Pegasi were flying about in the sky, freely and… erratically, as their handlers frantically called after them. Some were being held back by the reins, struggling to take flight as their human partners did all they could to keep them on the ground. Stable hands and flier knights alike were scrambling about, trying to get a handle on the agitated animals.

And Mist doesn’t even want to know why a blast of fire had just burst out from one of the wyvern’s stalls, or why it was followed by a terrified scream.

She blinks, taking in the chaos around her. This… was going to be a long day, wasn’t it?

         when he had shouldered the mantle of king goldoa and sworn to himself that he would remain both true to his convictions and respectful of the legacy his father had left him by working to dissolve divisions as an arbiter of peace, he had not... imagined it going quite like this. he has to admit, he had foreseen mediating conflicts between races, not... steeds; had hoped to calm the storm winds between tense nations, not agitated animals.

          but, he thinks with a look equal parts resignation and patience, conflict is conflict.

          the stables are in complete disarray, far moreso than the innocuous request for extra hands had made it seem. straw and supplies lie strewn about, trampled, carts tipped over. a piece of the holding fence has been broken in where it looks like a pegasus or several may have made their escape. a handful of the creatures wheel out in the sky, some quickly little more than dots in the distance.

          and that’s not even to account for the noise.

          casting around, he catches sight of a petite figure clutching a stave nearby — a rare sight in a continent where, he understands, magic is customarily cast without aids. shoulder-length chestnut hair begets familiarity, and she stands with eyes to the spectacle, dwarfed by the scale of it.

razurite​:

[ ... ]      inky splotches hide neat penmanship, but shigure can make out the first two questions at least. there was nothing to be gained from aimless slaughter, but that was not the question. the question was more complicated than that. more complicated, at least, than a small sheet of paper and prying eyes could afford them. a new answer returns to the board, alone in its accompaniment as shigure tucks their preceeding notes away to their pocket.

There is strength to be found in both. I’m sure you’ve heard that before. I’ve seen both. One is preferable to the other. But, I am no ruling dignitary, so I suppose my opinion isn’t of particular value when it comes to things like this. I couldn’t read much of what you wrote. Still, if you should find this a conversation you’d like to continue, might I suggest you leave your question and reply where spring survives the death knell of winter? Where the hydrangeas bloomed last summer.

          the cold, brilliant sun streams through the window in a pellucid glow, stretching fingers wide across the thin pane in the clear, crystalline threads of late winter. the sensation is cool against his own hand when he presses it against the glass to mirror the spider web of frost, and he smiles when it reminds him of everwhite peaks. inhale a drought of brumal chill, the kind that seeps through wood and stone and makes itself at home. bring a piece of somewhere far away with him wherever he goes.

          refreshment settles quiet in the early morning, before the world stirs.

In fact, I suggest it is because you have no title that gives weight to what you have to say. Kings are as liable to misstep as anyone else, and through factors beyond their control, must remain steadfast to those errors. Were their actions the only ones of value, all the lands would know ruin.

          he pauses, ostensibly to wet his quill in ink, but the moment is enough for reflection to creep in, disturbing the calm of the still pool. perhaps he says too much. but these thoughts that turn in the recesses of his mind, locked behind secrecy and reticence, are freer to play behind the protection of an anonymous message, and find liberation in their release. it’s curious, he thinks, how he is never troubled by this desire to share himself back home; in both cases now and in recent past, walking among the beorc and other laguz races has had the unique power of drawing out what he would normally keep closely guarded.

          eventually, he decides that it would be presumptuous to try the tolerance of his kind reader more than he knows is acceptable.

I apologize for the digression. Previously, you mentioned your relatives, those you claimed thirsted for glory. The old laws of my country placed peace above all else, an unchanging belief that, in some ways, cost more than it gave. I still believe in the pursuit of peace; I still detest violence. Stranger, you said there is strength to be found in both. Is this what drives the hunger for war?

          the chill filtering through the modest room is no longer a comfort. he scrapes the chair back and rises, gaze lingering on the finale to the stranger’s last letter. where spring survives the death knell of winter... riddles remain a common pastime in his homeland, and he folds this one over in his thoughts with an eager smile, like finding a sugared drop of a favored childhood sweet in a foreign shop kingdoms away.

          under the somnolence of winter, all nature is given rest. save where it is cultivated by external hands.

thievingstalwart​:

Sothe cannot say he has much interest in the faith of Fodlan. What few aspects of it he is aware of have been enough for him to get by daily, but this seminar, although the attendance was stated to be voluntary, is declared a required one for those focusing on economics and law. Annoying, but just a bit. After all, it’s not bad to learn something new, especially about the accepting country. And so, right at dawn he walks into the classroom, one of the last students to show up before the professor himself. 

It is there that he notices Kurth. Having got wind of his arrival, he meant to greet him, but as days went by, the work seemed to only pile up. The entirety of this day is also set to be occupied, with the seminar on, quite literally, a millennium of history. Unless the lecturer is concise - which usually isn’t the case with the people of faith - they will have to stay in their seats till the evening, with only a few short breaks for lunch and dinner. Signing up for the event, the rogue could only hope it would be engaging or at least valuable in the days ahead. Now, even if it won’t be, he is sure to make it through.

“Kurth!” he called out, drawing the attention of the prince. Hurriedly, he walks up and takes the seat beside him. “Yes indeed, I was afraid I’d be alone here, haha. Can’t wait to catch up with you,” he side-eyes the monk, slowly walking to the front, “but I think that’ll have to wait. I mean, unless we want to be kicked out that is.”

          the last he had seen the maiden’s close friend had been at the fraught cusp of the world’s imminent end. after a trial as momentous as that which they had climbed at the tower of guidance, what could be more memorable? the experience had been such a one that words only dimished rather than capture, a shared eschaton that bound even strangers together. and after all that had happened? the aftermath had been a whirlwind, a blur in even a dragon’s sempiternal memory — of coronations and celebrations, feasts and farewells. sothe had been among the countless, countless faces he had bid well-wishes to in the last days before taking his piece of the new dawn to be carried back to a new goldoa.

          in its wake, meeting him again in a quaint academy on a foreign continent, in an unassuming hall, arrayed in books and student uniforms, feels charmingly mundane. the thought brightens the color of his eyes.

          ❝ ‘ catch up ’ ... yes. i’d like to hear what brings you here as well. ❞ at the other’s indication, his gaze follows, but a line of eager admirers have begun congregating in their lecturer’s path, each clutching the same book and a quill in their hands for a coveted signature — it appears that they’ll hearing from quite the historian.

          it also means that the monk will be occupied for some minutes more.

ladamedepique​:

If Camilla tried to reach far enough back, she could remember something closely like it… But he felt nothing like the rot and decay and thick, heavy confusion and anguish that had filled the chamber in Valla like an oppressive presence. Camilla wouldn’t know–perhaps once, a long time ago, even Anankos felt as this odd being before her. Or maybe this was what they were all like before the distortion rendered them a cruel mockery of what they once were.

“No,” she replied after a moment, then stood. “I don’t think we do.”

Over his shoulder, the receding forms of other students slowed. Whatever fool thoughts were going through their heads was irrelevant, but what was more important was that they did not feel like he did. Empty and unintrusive and mellow, they cleansed the palate, and she was so certain then.

(Occasionally, when there were many students all pulled together in one place, there were faint… tugs. For the most part, Camilla was able to just ignore it; there was a time when the soft sensation at the edge of her nerves had stood out as something salient in her childhood, when she first witnessed the might of the dragon veins… And later, that same steady pulse in each of her siblings.) 

But the sensation dulled with time, like forgetting the way that clothing felt on one’s skin after a moment has passed. Unimportant. Familiar. This was not it. “This,” Camilla ventured, idly reaching to her hands and adjusting the fit of her gloves. She made a fist, then released, the black leather stretching over her knuckles as she did. She watched him. “This isn’t your only skin, is it dear?”

          something unreadable comes over her face, then. something he doesn’t know how to place. for a moment, it’s as though she’s recalled something, but he finds it impossible to discern behind the flash of her eyes, the dignified lift of her chin as though in an attack stance against an unforeseen force that battered and soothed in equal measure from some intangible place. but it is only an impression, and as fleeting as whatever that look had been, in that pregnant pause before her attention turns back to him and there’s a flexing tension in one of her shoulders, a hand concealed beneath the table.

           as she studies him, so does he as well — breaths across the surface of an untouched pool.

          though a part of him had anticipated it, the accusation still seeps beneath his skin with a chill unlike that of any known cold, crystalling in black scales and ridged spines that she claims to know. or at least suspects. he wonders if she’s guessed so far as to his race in full, or if, like him, simply intuits something atypical, a deviation in the current.

          ❝ i’m afraid i don’t know what you mean. ❞ rumors had spread since the first day of his arrival here; he’d guessed as much would happen. it’s undeniable that he stands out here — in appearance, in affect. these are things he cannot change, and will invite whispers and glances when he isn’t looking. ❝ if you’ve heard something about me, i ask that you pay no attention to it. ❞

          the larger world isn’t so forgiving, they had warned him — its structures ever shifting.                             ( to safeguard against their part in that imbalance, his father had made,                               and continued to make, an impossible decision, one that he understands                               more starkly than before. )

razurite​:

♪ —       it is almost invisible, left in a shadowed alcove to be forgotten except for by those that sought faceless advisors. shigure does not find themselves a frequent visitor, except only to collect their own submissions once embarrassment finds them first. it does not happen to be that is the situation is true today. digits carefully empty the oaken box, carefully unfolding the letters one after another to pin to a board freshly cleared of prayers that had been answered to help an old monk that supervises its submissions.

      prayers, shigure thinks.

      what a terrible way to think of it.

      just more unanswered letters to gods that do not hear them. just more disappointment, when they are reminded that their answers come not from the divine but people that walk this earth like them and know no more of what machinations laid in wait than they. not that many treated the advice box as their confessional. it was more of something to be heard by anyone without knowing who it was. more often than not, it was lament about how to keep a professor from agitating or how to keep a student in line. others ask of love, of hope and, at times, nothing at all. shigure smooths out the final piece of parchment, pausing only as honey catches on the final words of a shorter sheet.

      it’s an interesting question. what purpose did an institution serve if it did not offer its students all the tools at its disposal? they had no fondness for war themselves, having experienced enough of it for a lifetime and then some.

      quill is dipped in ink, words hastily scratched across parchment still left at the table.

It is easier to teach someone how to use a sword than learn how to not. I can’t imagine many of our peers would enjoy listening to ’ riveting ’ lectures on theory and concepts, though. Maybe if we called diplomacy a weapon, they might make the effort to wield it. If you so find a class, tell me. I’d like to send my relatives. I’ve too many of them who still would find glory in death.

      they pin the two notes to the board in the southernmost corner and leave, only after offering a polite goodbye. it occurs to them only as they head down the steps that their reply is not an answer. not really, anyway. but, what did it matter? another week would pass and someone would toss it somewhere to be forgotten at the bottom of some trash bin.

          he only hears about it tangentially, from the voices of monks echoing off stone on a quiet morning as he passes by. not many of his peers frequent the cathedral, he’s come to find, which surprises him, given its place as the centerpiece at the heart of garreg mach and the apparent prevalence of the corresponding faith in these lands. there is no judgment — he, who had committed sin of the highest order to a repudiate a god for the sake of an unstable future, has no right to judge — but it does seem like a shame. the architecture is magnificent, and so majestic to have withstood a millenia. even to him, such an age is impressive; he cannot imagine how beorc would not find it more breathtaking still.

                                        ‘ —plomacy classes, huh? this answer really has some cheek. ’           ( curious, his head turns, drawn to the innocuous little oaken lodestone in that shadowed corner again like it had been a few days ago. )

                                                            ‘ i don’t know, it’s got a point. ’           ( had his question received an answer? such a forthright demand. the zeal having passed, a part of him almost regrets it, now. his own script feels impudent. )

                                        ‘ what’s wrong with learning some battle skills? sometimes you                                           have to beat some sense into people if they won’t listen, y—                                                                                                     oh, excuse me. ’

          the monk pauses to step aside as he approaches, prompting a kind headshake. ❝ no need. you were not in my way. ❞ in the alcove’s shaded light, scintillating with soft crystals of prismacolor from the stained-glass windows, his eyes assume the dark maroon of mulberries as they lift to the slip of parchment in question, its contents already thoroughly interrogated by the present audience. he pulls it down, unable to help a small rush of excitement. the hand isn’t one he recognizes, though those would be few in so new a place. but the words suggest a fellow student, one equally as aggrieved with the focus on violence as himself.

          he lowers his hand and thinks for a moment, before turning to the monk who attends the box. ❝ may i keep this? ❞ the two exchange a look before giving lukewarm answers; he has the impression that the easy agreement without further questions comes mostly from being caught off guard.

          within the day, the answer returns to the board, with a new, accompanying reply:

gallantgautier​:

Well, Sylvain can’t exactly blame the poor kid for his reaction to the thing, whenever he can help it, he prefers to put distance between himself and the Lance too. Even having seen the weapon almost every day of his life, he had felt sick the first time he held it. And it is creepy, whether you know anything about Relics or not, he’d challenge anyone to not be even a little disturbed by it.

He wonders if perhaps he ought to put it away, wish the boy a pleasant evening, set the weapon into the case in his room and catch him another time. The red glow of the stone set in it doesn’t exactly supply refreshing mood lighting for a conversation after all.

Ah… But of course he has questions. Sylvain can’t help but sigh, seems everyone has questions for him these days. If only the topic was anything other than this, he’d have welcomed the change.

“You know? I have absolutely no idea.” He admits after a moments thought. He could have lied about it, he supposes, pretend he knows what he’s talking about, knowing nothing about the weapon he wields can’t be all that productive towards making a good first impression. But he just… Doesn’t feel like it. Somehow, that ranks higher on his list of reasons than not having an answer that would sound convincing.

Turning his head to the side, he regards the Lance for a moment, hoping his furrowed brow looks more thoughtful rather than disgusted, “I mean, it looks like bone, right?” He says, tearing his gaze away before the awful twitching makes him visibly shudder, “But these things are really old, so if it was, surely it would have broken by now? I dunno about the others, but this one has actively been in use for generations. Bone can’t be that sturdy, surely.”

          ‘ i mean, it looks like bone, right? ’ hearing his own thoughts given voice chills inexplicably, and in vain he swallows down the rising blockage hardening in his throat. as if by some unseen force, his eyes pan to the malformed lance again, nausea knotting in his chest at the phantom twitch of the finger-like skeletal growths beneath the speartip. hurriedly, he blinks away again, pushing back the image of rajaion’s fragmented head spines. 

                                        if they were broken off, worn and bereft of their luster                                                              — of the same rough shape,                                         fastened to a weapon that could have been gripped                                                                       in a mad king’s hand. 

                    a shudder passes down his spine; could such a hideous thing be possible?

          he doesn’t give voice to either agree or refute the young man’s statement, not immediately. it is such a nice thing to believe.

          ❝ i see... ❞ is all that remains to say, and for now he turns his thoughts from the possibilites of the weapon’s origins. the books had detailed the heroes’ relics to be many centuries old, a time long enough to bury any faults of the past well beyond the hands of those who lived now, for beorc. it’s a difficult thing to reconcile, but the truth is perhaps that, whatever the intentions of the creators, none of those who lived on this continent now were to blame.

          gentler currant lifts to the beorc again and brings serenity with it in a calmer smile. ❝ oh, i apologize. i forgot to ask your name, or give mine. you can call me kurth. ❞ hand over his heart in an instinctive greeting. they say that this year’s class at the officers academy boasts an abundance of students and faculty from beyond fodlan’s borders; he is less self-conscious about being seen as strange than he was the last time he’d ventured on his own.

          the goddess’ edict : a millennium of holy history. the description of the seminar given on the flyer had seemed promising: a talk and discussion given by one of the senior monks at the monastery, well-versed in the teachings of the faith for several decades, who had taken a position as a history lecturer in his youth at the academy itself before devoting himself wholly to the goddess’ service. 

          reading it, kurthnaga had to remind himself that ‘ several decades ’ was impressive tenure for a beorc, but nevertheless, longevity had no bearing on the roles of master and student here; he came into the world beyond goldoa with an infant’s eyes, and was eager to hear how this land’s beliefs in their goddess had shaped the passage of time, whether the same sands blown by the same winds shaped different structures on different continents.

          most of the attendants, he noticed upon entering the hall, looked as foreign to fodlan as himself, though there were a handful he recognized from other classes. faith students, if he recalls correctly, and more than one of the church clergy, along with several of the infirmary staff. the speaker himself doesn’t seem to have arrived yet, and so he selects a row of seats towards the back of the room, setting his belongings on the desk

          — and no sooner than that than his name rang from a startled voice at once familiar, that carried with it the windswept memory of desert sands and a different sky.

          head turning, ruby scanning the new entrants to find a spark of forest green standing head above a smaller crowd, a face upon which surprise seems unfitting. in the short time he’d known him, youth had ever been masked by the stern lines of sobriety. 

                              kurthnaga smiles privately to himself;                               yet another instance where years amount to little more than numbers. 

          he greets the young man with a nod. ❝ sothe. how nice to see you. a familiar face is a welcome comfort in such a place. ❞

          tucked away and unassuming, the little oaken box sits nestled in a corner away from the soft light streaming through the cathedral nave, sequestered in a shadowed niche and tended only by a single monk the crowds easily pass by, as though he, too, had become a fixture of the corner as much as the stone carvings, or the small wooden table. how nice; there’s something charming and inviting about the simplicity of the layout, befitting of its simple use as an anonymous alcove for one’s worries to be shared without fear of shame or retribution. he can see how such a device would see ample use in a place like this, and considers whether it might prove equally as effective back home as he turns a half-leaf of parchment over and eyes the selection of writing quills.

          ❝ ... may i? ❞ he turns to look at the stationed monk, and the man seems surprised, as though unused to being spoken to, before hurrying to nod.

          ❝ yes, of course. i hope your prayer receives a satisfying answer. ❞

                                                                                a prayer...

                              the corners of his lips turn upward in a small smile of consideration.                               what a lovely way to think of it.

          as the monk turns respectfully away, kurthnaga leans his elbows onto the table to consider his words. an advice box, that would be seen by any who walked past, free for any to offer their thoughts and counsel. what concerns are there that he can share? what that don’t require a locked secrecy, burdens for him to contemplate alone, whose answers none can truly give? the dry quill tip traces aimless patterns on the paper, steeped in thought.

          at last, they touch with ink.

I understand that this is a military academy, made to prepare its students as future leaders of state. However, I do not condone the emphasis on war, and the excitement for battle. At times, I realize that the use of force is the only option left, but I abhor violence. Should there not be greater consideration for understanding and diplomacy?

          would he be seen as nothing more than a meddling outsider, giving his thoughts where they don’t belong? no, there were no names here; no faces. merely words on a wall. he will await whatever answer would come; and this too, to further his understanding of the lands beyond a longstanding isolation.

bold what applies to your muse / repost, don’t reblog!

𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑. a chill right down to the bones. tobogganing. teeth chattering. sleeping all day. sitting by the fireplace. spending time with family. layered clothing. seeing another’s breath. loving the cold. a state of inactivity. cold hands. blistering winds shaking the closed windows. a bookcase full of brand new books and all of the time in the world to read them. cable knit socks. a bitter remark. a log cabin in the middle of nowhere. hating the cold. full-length windows to peer out of. pale skin. deep conversations. watching the snow fall. sharp edges. hot cocoa. smelling every candle in the store. a wild snow storm. melancholy. lighting candles around the bathtub. snow globes. expressing yourself but never finding quite the right words. the softest blankets. liking, but not loving something or someone.

𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. the smell after it rains. being in control of yourself. a soft breeze blowing through your hair. lightning when it strikes. cherry blossoms. bright mornings. the first sign of hope. the relief of finding something you lost. paris in the spring. birds chirping. the art of growing. a kiss on the cheek. the clap of thunder. a tornado in the valley. smiling at a stranger. planning. saccharine pinks. making promises. trying something new. hugs when you need them the most. a bee sting. sitting on the steps of the met. coming inside drenched from the thunderstorm. picnics on a red checkered blanket in the new sun. that feeling you get when you put on a good dress. a long hike. rushing when you can take your time. going to the gym at ungodly hours. excitement for what’s coming. becoming yourself. rain boots.

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑. lanterns lit around a campfire. seeing the sunrise like it’s the first time again and again. melting ice cream. the warmth of the sun rays on your skin. fireworks. the feeling of never wanting something to end. beach days. the lone blow up floaty left in the pool. drifting with the warm nights breeze and nothing else. music blasting at 3am. palm trees on sunset boulevard. longer days and shorter nights. wanderlust. night spent staring at the stars. sand castles. road trips. blood orange sunsets. leaving the laundry to hang outside. flowers in bloom. sneaking out of your room late at night. pure contentment. barefoot in the sand. the street lights coming on. the sound of the ocean in the seashells. freshly squeezed lemonade. loose clothing. a cannonball into the pool. sunflowers. the hazy pink before dawn. relaxation.

𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋. the leaves changing colors. a heavy backpack. the smell of old books. eating until you’re stuffed. deep, dark woods. the silence in loudness. abandoned houses. ripped jeans. crunching leaves beneath feet. feeling like you’ve been somewhere before. sitting at a bay window. having endless amount of homework. charcoal drawings. screaming into a pillow as loud as you can. pumpkin patches. creaky floorboards. accepting that some things have to change. museums. small talk. being ignored. procrastinating. a door slamming shut. going to bed early. baking pies. the fear of walking alone in the dark. feeling completely and terribly lost. a twig snapping. crisp, cool days. belly laughter after crying. converse. foggy mornings at the shoreline. writing a daily entry in a journal. a lonely day.

          straw chafes against soft olive skin unused to labor, sure to leave abrasions and a splinter or two by the end of it, if the sharp rub of unfinished wood within the bundles is any indication. but he stomachs it; and, in a way that might seem strange to those back home who knew him, he found that part of him enjoyed it. asking the crown prince to carry a shipment of spear poles to the training grounds would be unheard of — an unthinkable insult — and he can imagine the others’ outrage if they knew. but here, there was no concern for that, and he had seen several of the other students of equal height in social standing tending to similar chores of their own; the other day, he had been informed that the blond beorc toiling away in the stables was the crown prince of faerghus himself.

          so beorc here eschewed the gravitas of inheritance too, and sought to work alongside their subjects and pull equal weight. it seems magnanimous, and appears to foster a sense of harmony among them. even if it is not something the dragon tribes would ever condone, he finds that there’s much to learn from it.

          and—

                           with a hefty exhale: ❝ there. ❞

          the bundle finally rolls from his arms to rest against the side of the small armory, and he straightens up to ease the tense knot in his back. a glance around the training hall reveals that, at this late hour, there weren’t many students left. but there is one — a tall young man with a wild head of vermilion, swinging a...

                                                      ... what was that?

          for several seconds, he remains still, watching not the beorc’s repetitive motions but the cadaverous object in his hands, reshaped into a weapon but gleaming an osteal yellow under the dying light. for that’s what it was, wasn’t it? what his eyes revealed despite an unwillingness to believe it, and what brought a creeping sensation of something not fully familiar but just uncanny enough.

                                           ❝ ... excuse me for interrupting your training. ❞

          a pleasant mien and placid tone belie the lump that resides in his throat,           that refuses to be swallowed. he finds it hard to tear his eyes away from what,           closer now, he can no longer deny as bone.

                                               ❝ that weapon... may i ask where it’s from? ❞